"I hate my fucking job" was scrawled across my office whiteboard for a while this morning. The department head sent out 2 "final" versions of a new 8x12 foot poster that will go in the lobby of the building. Every single paragraph had a word misspelled! Yeah, that'll look nice in 3" high letters. Not. Plus, the poster itself is crap. Really. It looks like something from the early 90s, put together by a kid with a cracked copy of Photoshop.
I am pissed that NOBODY has bothered to proofread the copy for the poster. Not the faculty who have been given the text to review. Not the "designer" (and yes, I'm using air quotes here) who put together the poster. Nobody. How hard is it to fucking run spellcheck before you cut & paste the text? With all of 6 short paragraphs on a page, why couldn't anybody notice the typos?
I'm pissed at the department head who gives me revised text for the website which is so poorly written that I have no idea what he's trying to say. I've cleaned up as much as I can, but frankly, I just don't care anymore. I'm annoyed that he wants me to put two of the most boring video clips ever onto his faculty page. Nobody will ever watch them. Hell, I have no idea what they are.
Pray that my freelance job comes through, please. Otherwise I'm going to need one of you (my friends, that is - not any crazy internet stalker folk) to make me your kept woman, because I can't survive working full-time here much longer. I don't do dishes, but I'll make you an endless supply of WTFWJD bracelets & get all the spyware off your computer.
This morning the fields were veiled with mist. There's something about the way trees melt into fog that fills me with such intense longing. I very nearly pulled my car over and walked into Como Park, never to return (or so it felt). Even as a child, I would walk deeper and deeper into the mist-filled woods, believing that if I just went a few more feet I would pass through into some strange land. Sometimes I wonder where this longing comes from, what it's telling me. Such a visceral reaction - perhaps I am half-remembering an encounter with heaven.
Between the bent stalks of wheat, several dozen Canada geese shuffled and honked. Trees are already stained with crimson. Do they realize fall has not come, that there will still be cheese-curd scented nights on the midway, gawkers pointing at the giant pig in the livestock pavilion?
Flying home from Colorado, the clouds filled me with that same strange longing that I mentioned above. Misty dream mountains, the prow of a giant ship flowing through churning ocean, piles of whipped cream and whispy cotton candy, the delicate curl of waves in a Japanese woodcut. I am left breathless by the wonder of it all, how water can shape and form itself in the clear air.
Monday night I returned from a brief, last-minute trip to visit family. (Sorry R&D - no free time to stop by your place this time.) It seems so strange to me that I am related by blood to people I barely know, while the people I love so much have no physical ties to me. I will admit, though, that I immediately fell in love with my cousin's son; I long for the energy of a two-year-old. I've not slept well in a week and my eyes will barely focus today. What luxury to be able to lie down in the middle of the floor and fall asleep whenever I need to!
Sleep, fleeting and elusive these days, may become even more rare. I have a potential freelance job coming up that would entail 300 hours of work between now and April. The project sounds fascinating and the money would be very good. If you think of it, toss up a prayer for me, please. Disappointment has been a too-constant companion these past few years; I am afraid to hope too much.
After a day of increasing pain, I found myself weeping at church last night, unable to move my head without the threat of vomiting. I am grateful for Marlene's talented and patient fingers, which prodded my clenching muscles into releasing.
I am grateful to Colleen, who knows me well enough to tell Marlene that I needed help but wouldn't ask for it myself.
I am grateful for Holly, who offered heating pads and sympathy.
I am grateful for the ability to email in sick and not worry about losing my job.
I am grateful for adhesive heating pads, a new invention I had not tried until today.
I am grateful for the familiar comfort of tomato soup, grilled cheese, and "Sense and Sensibility" on video.
I am grateful for the unconditional love of Aidan, who has devoted her day to me, wrapping her warm-cat body to fit the curve of my arm on the futon.
I am grateful that my pains are temporary and relatively minor.
I am grateful that, for the first time ever, being sick made me feel less alone.
I'd wager you are less the "chubby, unattractive, unhip, boring" girl than the mysterious, fiendishly intelligent girl who, when she speaks, always says something right-on.
I read this a month or two ago on a message board I frequent and the truth of it has stuck with me. I don't know the woman who wrote it or the one for whom it was intended, but it seems to capture some elemental truth. We do not see ourselves as we ought.
I run across this in my friends all the time - the beautiful, intelligent women who fear they are too unattractive or interesting to get a date, the ones who fear nobody will want to be friends because _____ is wrong with them, those who stay locked in jobs they hate because they lack the self-confidence to find something else.
So often I, too, am locked into a junior-high vision of myself - the chubby, painfully-shy girl who was tormented in the school hallways (the taunting cries of "beach whale" have hurt much longer than the fists that pounded into me), who mattered so little that the school administrators refused to take any action to stop the abuse. This is the person I tend to see.
A few minutes ago I finished a phone call with an acquaintance from college. He is consulting for some people who need a "an extremely savvy and talented web designer" and thought of me. Frankly, it shocked me. I just can't bring myself to think that way. Granted, I know I can turn out nice work, when given the freedom to do so. But I am so prone to compare myself to the truly great designers I see; I forget that I can be good and that is often enough.
I wish my self-doubting friends could see themselves as I do - as women I admire (and often envy) for their strength, kindness, intelligence, wit, talent, and beauty.
And I wish I could look at myself the way I look at them.
Sometimes the dumbest things run through my head. This morning it was "nobody will ever love me because I have fat arms." Yeah, right.
I think that the personalized photo stamps would go great with photo checks. Mine would probably have pictures of my cats or a tree. What would you pick?
I was looking at personalized address labels during lunch. I'm tempted to get a set with drawings of me, the cats, and a man. Under him, I'd have them type Your name here. While browsing, I ran across the pet examples page. The bottom section, where people describe their pet's specific coloring, made me cry. Really. I'm sitting here bawling and I don't know why. Maybe I'm just touched that a) people would think to write in and request special color combinations for such a mass-produced item and b) that the company would actually do it. Or maybe it's PMS.
'Talking' gorilla treated after complaining of dental problem - My favorite sentence is "They crowded around her, and Koko, who plays favorites, asked one woman wearing red to come closer. The woman handed her a business card, which Koko promptly ate."
Who needs world peace when you can write about stuff like this?
This weekend I picked up The Curse of the Singles Table at the library, since I'd read some reviews and it looked like it might have potential. Alas, I should have paid more attention to the subtitle: "A True Story of 1001 Nights Without Sex."
What could have been a mildly entertaining look at the perils of single life - weeding out wierdos on match.com, fending off grandma's "why aren't you married yet?" - was ruined by the wide-eyed and breathless, "Look at me! I'm not having sex!" which leapt off every page.
By the end, I wanted to shake the author and scream "Grow the hell up!" It's not like being celibate for 2 1/2 years is the equivalent of winning the Nobel Peace Prize or being the first woman to colonize Mercury. I can run out of fingers counting the people I know who have not have sex for much longer than that. Some of them have - gasp! - never had sex at all in their 30+ years on earth. They, however, have the good sense to understand that nobody cares about this, so they've avoided writing books.
It's a pity this woman didn't do the same.
September 7, Florence - It is the night of rificolona and my roommate Elena and I have accompanied our host family's son Lewis to the festival. Small children parade in a circle in front of their proud parents, waving sticks with candle-lit paper lanterns dangling from them. Older boys, probably 9 or 10 years old, dodge and dash between people, using peashooters to fling BBs at the lanterns. A cheer goes up each time they put one out.
Another afternoon, walking by the Arno river - A young Japanese woman comes out of a shop, licking a cone of gelato. She looks around and I see her face crumple in panic as she realizes her tour group is nowhere in sight. With a wail of fear, she drops the ice cream and runs down the street. More than 10 years later, I still hope that she managed to find her friends.
Communion, at the American Epicopal church in Florence - I am feeling homesick and lonely, missing the friends I always sat with on Sundays back home. Then, during communion, I have the greatest sense that we are not alone - that the saints and believers throughout the ages are there with us as we kneel at the altar rail to receive the wafer and wine. I do not feel alone anymore.
My house on Via Pandolfini, near the Duomo - My key twists in the ancient lock and the giant wooden door swings open. It must be 15 feet tall and hundreds of years old. I pass from the heat and bustle of the city center into the sanctuary of a cool darkness. My back against the now-shut door, I look at the empty central courtyard for a moment before working my way through the twisting passages and up the stairs to our apartment.
In the Duomo - The old man's bird-claw hand grips my wrist tightly. "Bella! Bella! Botticelli!" he says to me, over and over. I finally manage to twist away, muttering in Italian that I must go meet my boyfriend. I have learned never again to look strangers in the eye, as it is perceived as an invitation; this mannerism lingers to this very day, and I find myself staring at the hollow of someone's neck as they talk.
On a streetcorner, a shrine with a painting of the Virgin and Child and a candle - Someone told me once that the streets of Florence had been filled with these lantern shrines. I imagine night in a city without streetlights, navigating by the light of the saints.
On Saturday evening someone flipped the switch and, like the funhouse at the state fair, the floor suddenly tilted from under me and I careened out of control.
Damn.
Perhaps I should be happy that I got through an entire month without really experiencing depression. Perhaps I should be happy that the sadness is no longer quite as overwhelming as it was Sunday morning, when I stood in the shower forcing myself not to cry because I was afraid that if I started it would never ever stop. Perhaps I should be happy that I no longer feel I have to hide my emotions, but can instead type my anguish to be read by the known and unknown masses.
But I'm not.
Last night, in dreams filled with anxiety, I tried to finish the brochures Sarah has been making for my department at work. I would finish one thing, only to realize I'd forgotten another. The one-hour project stretched on and on and I felt less and less in control.
As I sit and reflect on this now, I realize that out-of-control, incompetant feeling is so typical of my life right now. I made a "to do" list a few days ago and there must have been over a dozen items on it. And not little ones, but the big "finish this client project and this one and this one and find someone to chop down the tree and reroof the garage and get someone to clean the gutters and replace the flashing and write to your grandmas and when are you going to paint the kitchen." My "want to do" list was much shorter - maybe 3 or 4 items: finish a necklace I started months ago, work on the book purse I'm making. It was just too much for me. So Saturday I blew off all my responsibilities and just relaxed. It was "Blooming Days" on Grand Ave., so I walked up and down the street getting free flowers at the different stores. The boquet now in the living room makes me smile every time I see it.
I don't have the energy or the time to pursue the things that matter to me. And, rather than finishing up my projects, I am drawn into ever-growing procrastination and distraction.
I feel tired and sad and stupid and ugly and uncreative and trapped. And I am dreading the hormonal crash which will be added to this in a few weeks.